Short Stories for Sansa and Sandor: A One-Shot Collection
by IceQueen102
Summary: A collection of one shots for the pairing of Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane. Genres and Ratings may vary.
1. Chapter 1: Three Women, and One

**_Author's note:_** _Hello everyone! Welcome to this little collection of SanSan one-shots! They might be familiar to some of you as they have already been posted in the SanSan livejournal communities, but since they have been spread between posts and comment fics, I decided to upload them here. They are all unbeta-ed, and english is not my first language, so you might find some errors, though I try to be as careful as I'm able. Constructive criticism is always welcomed!  
_

_**Disclaimer**: GRRM owns everything, HBO owns a lot, I own nothing._**  
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**Three Women, and One.**

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Rating: T

Summary: Never, in his whole life, has he dreamt of being loved. But he is, by three women, and one.

Warnings: None

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Never, in his whole life, has he dreamt of being loved. Feared, for sure. Respected, maybe. Admired, not likely. But loved, he had always thought impossible. And yet, here he is. Loved deeply and truly by three women, and one. Oh, and he loves them too. So alike and so different they are, and each holds his heart in a different way.

First, there's the girl. She's a lovely creature. She sings him sweet songs, and plays for him. Sometimes, she gifts him with a new tunic embroidered by her small, delicate hands. When she dances, she looks like she's floating above the rest of them, foolish mortals too lowly to be in the presence of such a pure angel. She gives him favours when he jousts and small kisses in his cheek, and blushes when he stares too hard, or too long. She loves him.

Then, there's the Lady. Whether she's sitting in her vast castle, or walking through it, he's always one step behind. He'd protect her with his life. She's worldly, and clever, and deals with her lords as if she had been born for this. She trusts him completely. She is proud of his strength, and proud of the way he has used it to strengthen her army. She believes he deserves better, and would readily make him a Lord in some castle, and marry him herself. She would if she could. She's always careful when she looks and when she touches, but she does it all the same. She, too, loves him.

Last, but not least, there's the bastard girl. She can be wicked, and daring. She's the cleverest of them all, the most cunning. She winks at him sometimes to see if she can fluster him. She always covers her tracks when she visits him. She goes riding with him sometimes, and most of those rides end with them making love beneath the trees. She's passionate. Every one of her words is made to entice him. She loves him as well.

He loves them as they love him, and perhaps some would think it complicated, and insane, but he does not forget there were once two where there's now one, and perhaps the other is not really gone, and just hiding, biding his time until the next battle. He knows they suffer, too. The girl sighs, the lady hurts, and the bastard yearns. He tries his best to keep the pain at bay when he can manage it. He tries to love them the best he can, the best he's learned how, and they teach him new ways to love everyday.

Some might think it complicated, but it's not. Because, in the dead of the night, when the sun goes down and only the moon reigns on the skies, when the darkness covers it all and everything sleeps, and lies wait until morning, between his arms and his sheets they are only one. A little bird. And she loves him.


	2. Chapter 2: Love will keep us together

**Love will keep us together (Love will tear us apart)**

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Rating: PG-13  
Summary: It is always a struggle, to choose between what we want and what we must do. And no matter what, someone will get hurt.

Warnings: None

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Power was a curious thing, indeed. Power meant many things to many people. A trick, a shadow on the wall to some. Some said dragons were power. Others claimed no power but the gods that made them. Gold was power as well, information was power. Yet it was funny how many people disregarded love. And such a powerful force it was! Love could make kings and bring them down. It could be a unifying, inspiring force at its best, and destructive at its worst.

Right now, Sansa Stark was thoroughly convinced love was the strongest and most terrible power she had ever encountered.

She held in her hand a single scrap of paper that could mean many things; salvation, alliances, the end of poverty and starvation to her people. Simply by replying with an affirmative answer, she could help rebuild Winterfell into what it once was. And yet, one look, one glance at the sleeping man on her bed made all her doubts, all those thoughts that crept upon her during the day, come back in full force, striking her, crippling her and turning a Queen into an hesitant little girl.

Was there any doubt that she should accept? Her sense of duty, her experience playing the game of thrones, all screamed at her with a thousand different voices. There was her Mother, reminding her of her duty to her house. _"Your father and I learned to love each other slowly, over the years, and it grew into something wonderful and strong_". There was Robb, begging her to learn. "_You can do right what I did wrong. You can make the right choices."_ There was Father, who taught her sacrifice. "_Your people are like your children. I gave my life for mine, for you. Can you do the same?" _

And yet, was there any doubt that she should refuse? How dutiful a wife could she make to anyone, while she loved another? Could she even love any child she bore, all the while knowing they were not _his_ children? She felt like screaming sometimes. Why had it fallen all on her? She had been a daughter with three brothers. She should have had enough agency to marry at least a lesser Lord. And yet here she was, a Queen in truth, not the Queen Regent as she had been. She had become what she had needed to, instead of what she had been raised to be.

And why did nobody care how she felt about all of this? Arya was only half of her time at Winterfell; she could never shoulder the responsibility of reigning. Rickon had done away with all her hopes of living a quiet, simple life when he had abdicated the throne. His reasons had perhaps been sound, perhaps he had not been prepared to rule, but she hadn't been either and yet here she was, while he was off leading a free and happy life. Much as she loved her brother, she did not think she'd ever forgive him.

_I thought I was done being unhappy. I thought I had finally gotten my song, imperfect as it was. Will I never learn? Will they tear me down every time I gather myself just a little? _

She was tired. Tired of sacrificing, tired of compromising for the happiness of others. She wanted to be selfish, to run away from the world, marry her beloved and live in a place far away from the world. Alayne the bastard could have done it once, perhaps. But Alayne was gone, dead the moment they placed a crown in Sansa's auburn hair.

And what if she did marry Sandor? Would their love hold, stand the test of time? Or would it burn brightly like a flame only to die out later, leaving behind only ashes of what it once was? Would they be closer to what Eddard and Catelyn were, or to what she heard Prince Doran and the Lady Mellario had become?

It would have been easier, so much easier, if she had never met him, if she had never loved him. If only he had kept his distance from her the moment they met again, perhaps childlish curiosity and infatuation would have never grown into something more. If he had never found some peace, if he had never asked for her forgiveness, if he had never treated her with any respect nor saved her life many times, if only she hadn't felt so safe around him, if only she hadn't trusted him… and yet, for all the pain she felt right now, she knew deep down she would have never traded those moments for anything. She might have become strong regardless of him, but she would have never felt truly alive.

And he _knew_, of that she was sure. He could read her like an open book, he knew of the offer, of her struggles, of her indecisions. It seemed to her now that even his lovemaking that night had had a sort of desperate quality to it. Passionate at first, painfully slow later. As if he had made the choice for her. As if he was saying goodbye.

Could she walk away? Could she keep herself from coming back? Could she possibly learn to trust someone else, to sleep at ease besides a man that wasn't Sandor? Could she learn to lie beside someone and not fear being stabbed in the back?

And yet, for all her musings, for all her doubts, she knew it was useless. In a way, the decision had been made a long time ago; she needed only to send the word. And so she did. She wrote the short answer and ran to the tower with the ravens, when she tied it to the one that had been waiting for the parchment, and went back to her room.

When she did return, she realized that Sandor's quiet sleep was being disturbed by nightmares. (She knew the feeling. They plagued her as well). She sat down slowly, smoothed his brow and kissed his forehead, and then she whispered in his ear: "Quiet, my love, it will all be better in the morning"

After all, if a lie was kindly meant, there was no harm in it.


	3. Chapter 3: Songs for an Early Spring

_Here comes a really happy, fluffy one. Considering the one that comes after this, I thought it appropiate. Thanks for the f__ollows and reviews!_**_  
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**Songs for an Early Spring**

For: ladonna94  
Rating: PG-13  
Summary or Description: As requested for a christmas exchange: "Anything involving Sansa, Sandor and their pups. + Bonus for Winterfell, Aunty!Arya and "needlework", Overprotective!Sandor, ProudHappyFather!Sandor, Whipped!Sandor".

Warnings: Here be fluff. I'm serious.

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**Arya**

"Aunt Arya!"

The childish call resonated all across the training yard. Arya Stark only had time to put down her sword before a pair of arms enclosed themselves around her legs, with enough strength to almost send her to the floor.

"Hey there, little one!" She smiled and ruffled the black hair of the little boy who now looked up to her, his bright smile made even sweeter by the fact he was missing one of his front baby teeth, his grey eyes shining excitedly.

"Guess what, Aunt Arya! Guess what? Do you know what day is tomorrow?" He asked, releasing her.

Arya faked a frown, placing her hands at her hips. "Now, how could I possibly know? I thought tomorrow was nothing special…"

"But, Aunt Arya," the little boy pouted, "tomorrow _is _special!"

Arya bent until she was at an eye level with him. "Really? Pray tell me, little one, what happens tomorrow?"

"It's my seventh name day!" The boy puffed out his chest, proudly.

"No! Already?" she gasped. "Why, here I thought you were only four! Gendry!" She called out at the man walking into the yard. "Little Ned says it's his seventh name day tomorrow. Did you know that?"

The tall, black haired man smiled while retrieving some of the swords lying around.

"I had no idea, m'lady. You're growing old, Ned." He teased. Arya laughed at that and nodded, agreeing. At this, Ned crossed his arms around his chest.

"I am _not_ old!" He pouted, and then pointed his finger at Arya. "_You_ are old!"

"Pardon me?" she frowned. "Your mother is old, not me!" she retorted, thoroughly enjoying the childish banter with her nephew.

"Mother's not old! Father's old!"

At this, both Arya and Gendry erupted in laughter. "Oh, seven hells," Arya gasped, "I wish he had been around to hear that! Oh, Ned, think you could repeat that to him? Preferably when I can see his face… gods, that'd be hilarious!"

"There are some little boys," a nearby voice said, "who should be breaking their fast instead of running around the castle."

The tall, graceful figure of Ned's mother came into view, her long auburn hair tied in a simple braid, a long blue dress complementing her eyes. Sometimes Sansa looked so much like Catelyn Stark had that Arya had to do a double take and remind herself that their mother was long gone. She now had the same stern look on her that Mother had had many times when Arya had run away from Septa Mordane's scolding.

"Good morning Arya, Gendry," she greeted them, and they greeted back. "Well, Ned?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Ned said, while shuffling his feet, looking guiltily at them, "I just wanted to tell Aunt Arya my name day was on the morrow!"

Sansa smiled warmly at her first born.

"I'm sure by now the entire castle knows your name day is on the morrow, Ned. Now, your father wanted all of us to go riding, and he said he'd train the sword with you, but you can't go unless you have eaten."

She didn't have to say anything else, before the boy left running back to the hall. Sansa watched him go, smiling wistfully and, Arya thought, rather nostalgic.

"Are you all right, sister?" she asked, standing beside her. Sansa turned to her.

"Yes, it's just… he's going to miss it here, you know? We all will. Annabelle is too young to understand, but Robb and Ned love it here."

"You don't have to go, you know," Arya commented. "No one is forcing you to go. In fact, Rickon really wants you to stay. He has grown up around you and the children. I'm sure he'd be delighted."

Sansa dropped her smile and suddenly she was wearing her Lady face, the face that often dealt with bannermen and smallfolk alike. It was that face that reminded most people that she was not only Catelyn Tully's daughter, but also Eddard Stark's daughter. The hard look of the Wolves of the North.

"Rickon is sixteen now. He's a man grown, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He cannot have his lady sister beside him to make his decisions for him any longer. No, Arya, when I stepped up as his regent I stressed the point that I would not leave Winterfell until my brother came of age. He is of age now, and I must go."

Arya understood, of course, and in her heart knew her sister had the right of it. They had both helped shape Rickon from the wild boy that arrived at White Harbor into the man he was today, and now he needed to walk the steps of their father on his own, no hand to hold him any longer. Yet she still felt a sense of bereavement at the upcoming separation. _The pack is scattering yet again_.

"Besides," Sansa continued, and now there was a slight smirk upon her face, "I went through enough trouble to make my bannermen see the worth of my husband and give him a lordship. It's time for Sandor to go and actually _be_ a Lord, much as he might loathe the idea."

Arya smirked too, now. "Well, then, let him go and be a Lord, and you and the children can stay here!" Sansa laughed. "I'm serious!" Arya protested. "You get to stay here, and I don't have to see his ugly face anymore! It's the perfect arrangement."

"Oh, Arya," Sansa said, still smiling and shaking her head, "would that I could, but I'm afraid I'm rather fond of my lord husband, and the children would miss their father."

"And you're quite sure he _is_ the father? I swear, those kids of yours are way too sweet to be Hound spawn."

"Yes, I am quite sure," Sansa answered, and her smile turned positively evil, "perhaps you'd like to hear the details of their conception, to clear any doubts, of course."

"Oh, by the gods, spare me. You were loud enough while we shared a keep." Arya snuck her tongue out to convey her disgust. After that they both stayed silent for a while, enjoying the view of the snow covered yard. "Want me to tell Harwin to saddle the horses while you and the children get ready?" she added finally.

"Yes, thank you, Arya." Sansa turned to leave, but before doing so, added. "And Arya, do wear a dress for Ned's feast tomorrow. I beg of you."

Arya made a mock curtsy as her sister walked away.

**Sansa**

The clattering of wooden swords resonated loudly in the woods as they clashed again and again. Sansa watched from the blanket on which she was sitting as Ned tried to parry every slash his father sent his way. Of course, Sandor was not using even a tenth of his strength. The important part of the training was to teach Ned the technique. Strength would come in time.

While Ned and Sandor trained, her younger children, Robb and Annabelle, were building a fortress in the snow. She made an effort to push away the memories of herself building Winterfell in the snow while she watched her children play.

Robb was tall for his age, as tall at five as his brother was at seven. He had inherited both her auburn hair and blue eyes, resembling his namesake uncannily. He was not as loud as his older brother was, but even then he was a happy, loving little boy. Little Anna was only two years old, auburn haired as well, but with her father's steely grey eyes. She was, in Sansa's biased opinion, the prettiest baby ever, and she had Sandor wrapped around her tiny finger. It was still amazing to see how the great, terrifying warrior she had met back at King's Landing was disarmed when his daughter smiled brightly every time he walked into a room.

And if there was a source of pride for both parents, that was the closeness between the siblings. Ned and Robb had proclaimed themselves Anna's champions when she had been born. Ned had even come to her, his little face all serious, and promised no one would ever hurt his baby sister, and offered his mother his little wooden sword. Sansa had hugged him at that, tears streaming down her face, proud at her little boy and at the same time praying he would never need to do such a thing. And Ned and Robb were close as well. They fought, as all children their age fought, but they defended each other and played together, and one occasion, when some child from Wintertown had pushed Robb to the mud, when the boy had been four, Ned had stood up for his little brother. It was the only time Ned ever fought anyone.

"Take the sword with both your hands, Ned."

Sandor's voice drew her back to the present. He was trying to improve his son's grip.

"You'll be using a broadsword, not a stick, child. I don't know _what_ your aunt's been teaching you, but you'll need both your hands to hold a real sword, not that bloody toy she keeps."

Ned laughed, but listened to his father and corrected his stance. Sansa cleared her throat drawing her husband's attention.

"What is it, Little Bird?" He still called her that.

"Language, my love," she pointed out, smiling sweetly. Sandor knew that smile, however. It translated to 'if you swear in front of the children one more time you'll sleep in the kennels.'

"Women," he rasped under his breath, before turning one more time to Ned. "Now, your legs need to be more separated, or you'll lose your balance."

They went back to sparring, and Sansa went back to observing. The sun was high on the sky, making the snow blanket on the ground sparkle, and a slight breeze moved the trees around them. Their leaves were a bright green colour, and some even had some flowers growing from them. It was cold, but not too cold, which was a further reminder that winter was finally leaving, making way to the beginning of spring. It was rather symbolic. The Lady of Winter, as some called her still, would leave Winterfell when spring came. However, right at that moment, she couldn't find it in herself to be sad. As her children laughter surrounded her, followed by Sandor's own at something Ned had done, Sansa whispered a silent prayer to the Old Gods, thanking them for allowing her this much. There was no everlasting happiness; she had learned that the hard way. But at least, right here and right now she could say she was truly happy.

**Sandor **

On Ned's name day, a large feast was held at Winterfell's Great Hall. For his nephew's day, Rickon had allowed him the main seat at the table, the place reserved for the head of the family. Little Eddard Clegane had loved this, and was all smiles as they brought in the first course. Sansa was sitting at his left, holding his baby sister, and on her side, Sandor and Robb. Rickon was at his right, followed by Arya, and by the table below, the rest of the household.

If someone had told Sandor Clegane, ten years ago, this would be his life, he would have roared in laughter, would have taken his interlocutor for a drunk, and would have smashed his spade in his head for good measure. And if someone had even dared mention it twelve years ago, that he'd end up married to Joffrey's little bird, well, that would have been cause for murder. Yet here he was, married to the most beautiful woman in Westeros (and while he might be subjective, many agreed), a woman who loved him back wholeheartedly, and who had given him his three little pups. That one was even harder to believe sometimes: The fearsome Hound, father of three. He still woke up in the middle of the night sometimes, looking for his wife's warm body, living proof that this was real and not a fever dream he was having while lying underneath that tree by the Trident.

He would never admit it out loud, but he was damn proud of his family, of his little ones. He remembered that at some point after meeting the Little Bird, he had decided she was worth risking everything for. But he had never been so absolutely willing to give everything he had until he had held his first born in his arms. Bloody miracle, that had been. He had never known anything like it. There was never any fear in his children's eyes when he came near, only unwavering trust and love. They hugged him, and kissed him, and every time he walked into a room, his little princess would giggle and wave her arms expecting to be lifted. It was love in ways he wasn't sure he even deserved. No, scratch that. He was damn sure he didn't deserve it, but he had it, and he wasn't going to go around complaining.

He watched Ned as he laughed at some jape his uncle had said beside him, until the Little Bird proclaimed it was time to open his gifts. Ned yelled "Yes!" and Robb climbed down his seat and went to stand beside his brother, to take a closer look. The whole table watched intently as he opened every parcel he was given, plus some that had been sent from Riverrun and the Vale. He held his breath for a second when Ned found a wooden puppet horse, courtesy of Harwin. When Robb saw it, he yelled he wanted to play with it as well. It was hard to keep down the shiver down his back, until Ned said doubtfully, "sure. As long as you don't break it, little brother."

Robb hugged his brother and Sandor finally breathed easier. He'd never be free of the ghost of Gregor, but he'd make damn sure none of his children were remotely like him, and so far they hadn't disappointed.

The she-wolf took a long package and passed it to the boy. He knew what it'd be a second before he opened it, and he already wanted to throttle the woman.

"Wow!" Ned gasped, "A real sword! Thank you, Aunt Arya!" He jumped from his seat to hug his aunt. He looked at his side to see Sansa breathing slowly, obviously trying to control her temper.

"A sword, Arya?" she asked, "don't you think he's a little… young?"

"Oh, come on, Sansa, it's never too early for him to have something to defend himself," her eyes darkened for a second, and he knew both sisters were thinking of the horrors their family had gone through. "Besides, it doesn't mean he can use it yet. He'll have to learn how. Do you like it, Ned?" she asked him. "I had Gendry make it especially for you."

"Yes! I love it!"

"Well," Sandor quipped, smirking "It'll be damn hard to top that one, won't it, Little Bird?"

"We'll see," his wife answered, and took the last parcel from below the table, passing it to their son. "Open it, dear." She said gently.

They both watched as Little Ned opened the last present, to find…

"A bridle?" he asked, not knowing really why they'd give him something like that.

"Yes," Sansa said, smiling, "you'll need it to ride your own horse."

At that, he open his eyes as wide as he could, filled with wonder as he asked, his voice low with awe. "A horse? I have a horse?"

"You do now, child." Sandor told him, enjoying his childish wonder. "It's outside, by the stables."

And so, the Clegane and the Starks walked towards the stables where Ned found a big white palfrey that hadn't been there before. He squealed and went to pet his new horse, who seemed to have a calm temper and let the little boy pat his neck and touch his hair. While Ned and Robb, with Arya's and Rickon's help inspected the new addition, Sandor stood back, embracing his wife with one arm and taking his little Annabelle with the other. They stood like that for a few moments, before Sansa said:

"Spring is coming."

Sandor let out a small laugh.

"Thinking of changing your family's words, now, Little Bird?"

"No," she said, smiling slightly, "I was just thinking we'll be leaving soon. I spoke about this with Arya just yesterday."

"Are you having second thoughts?"

"No, I'm not," she turned to look at him, "It'll be nice to be the mistress of my own castle, to shape a decent heritage for our children. It's just… this was my home. It's my home, twice over. We rebuilt it almost from the ground. I had always wanted my children to be born here. And we've been happy here, haven't we?" She looked at him, expectantly. He sighed.

"Yes, Little Bird, we have been happy here. They'll still be happy though, when they get to their new home."

"I suppose," she agreed, though she didn't seem too convinced. "I guess it'll be a new adventure for them. Everything's an adventure at that age. Though I was thinking," she added, and now she smiled wider, "maybe we could delay our departure for a few moons, maybe six?"

Sandor was puzzled for a while. They were to leave in a couple of months, why would she want to wait six…? Then it hit him. He looked at her, his eyes as wide as his son's had been when he got his horse.

"You cannot possibly mean… again?"

Sansa just smiled at him, kissing Anna's hair. He could only think one thing.

_Seven bloody buggering hells._


	4. Chapter 4: No Dawning Day

**No Dawning Day  
**

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Rating: T  
Summary: They are in the middle of the war against the Others, and the world may very well be ending, and the only thing she will regret are the things she never said.

Warnings: character death**  
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"Sansa! Where do you think you are going?"

She paid no mind to the calls coming from her brother as she resolutely ran towards the rundown stables. Her dress and hair were all in disarray, and her cheeks were red and tear-streaked, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered to her, except the fact that _he hadn't come back_. After what seemed like a century to her, she reached her horse, and had just finished saddling her when she felt a strong hand taking her forearm. She turned, angry and stern.

"Jon, let go of me."

Jon Snow stared back, his heavy eyes and brow serious. His black clothes were almost white with soot and only the gods knew what else.

"You cannot possibly go out there. We did not defeat the Others and their wights, merely pushed them back. It's too dangerous!"

"I don't care!" she bellowed, and with a hard shove she freed her arm from his hold. "He's out there! I know he is! I have to find him!"

"He's dead," Jon answered, his voice grave but hard, "every man behind those doors is dead and if you leave now you'll just add to the body count. I am not sending more of my men to die looking for you if you go through with this folly."

Sansa looked at him, angry, but her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Without another word, she climbed onto her saddle and took the bridles. It was then she spoke.

"So be it."

She took off into the night without a second glance.

Sansa rode faster than she had ever ridden in her entire life. When she entered the abandoned battlefield, she halted to a stop, and there was only one thing she could think of: if the seven hells existed, they must surely look something like this. The skies were brown and she could barely see ahead from all the grey smoke coming from the burning bodies scattered all over the ground. Some of the flames were still burning, giving the night an orange hue, and the _smell_… burning flesh, blood, and smoke. She had to go on. Sandor might be hurt, or worse, and this had to be a nightmare made real for someone like him. _I'm coming. I'll find you**.**_

She climbed down the horse and started walking slowly; checking as well as she could for a single sign of movement, a sound, something, anything. Her breathing was becoming laboured from the smoke, so she ripped the hem from her dress and tied it around her mouth. She clutched her dragonglass dagger with one hand and took a burning torch with the other. She was terrified, but the only person that made her feel safe just happened to be the one she was looking for, so she forced herself to keep walking.

_I should have told him. Before they rode away. I should have said something._

After what seemed an eternity, she saw some movement through the smoke. And heard a cough. _Wights don't breath_, she thought, elated, and she ran.

"Little…bird"

She wanted to cry, she wanted to laugh, she wanted to scream and jump. She had found him. He was lying on the ground, his clothes bloody and his breathing slow, but _alive_.

"Sandor!"

She threw the torch away, ran and knelt beside him, taking his hand.

"Fever…dream?"

With a slow movement, she wiped the hair from his face, taking in his pale and exhausted expression. His deep grey eyes, once so angry and forceful, were now almost… dim. Even his scars seemed softened.

"No, I'm here. I'm really here, Sandor. It's all right; you are going to be fine."

At this, he let out a strangled laugh, which he quickly finished with a cough.

"No…I'm not…"

Sansa quickly looked over his body, mangled and soot-covered, and to her horror, saw two deep piercing wounds, one below his chest, and the other on his side.

"It's just a flesh wound," she whispered, trying to convince them both, "if you just stand up, we can go…"

"It's useless, girl… I know death… when I see it. Besides… you can't carry me…" He laughed again, "too bloody…heavy… for you."

Trying to ignore him, to ignore reality, she stood up and tried to move him, at least to drag him, but he gave a loud grunt of pain, and she didn't dare do more. She knelt beside him once more and could feel more tears gathering behind her eyes. _Not like this… please. What do I do? What can I do?_

"The heart…" he whispered. "The gift of mercy. Do it."

Destiny must be laughing at them, the irony of it, she thought, his second time asking for mercy from one of the Stark sisters. But she couldn't do it, just as Arya hadn't done it before, but for entirely different reasons.

"Don't ask me… I can't, Sandor, I can't!" She placed his head on her lap, and leaned until her lips were on his forehead. "I love you too much to do it."

She had done it. She had finally said the words she had kept inside her chest for almost two years. His hand slowly found its way to her cheek, and he raised his eyes to her slowly as he whispered in return. "No, you don't… "

She cried again as she pressed her face to his hand, turning it, and kissing it. "But I do. I love you. I have loved you since… I can barely tell since when!" She closed her eyes, smiling sadly at the memory. "I've often thought it was that moment, when we entered Winterfell for the first time, after travelling for so long… You knelt in front of me, jesting, 'Your castle, Lady Stark', you said… but now I think I must have loved you from an even earlier moment… perhaps even before you left"

She looked at him. His black hair was damp and pressed against his forehead. His skin was cool and clammy. His eyes were closed, and there was a queer smile on his face.

"Crazy, silly little bird… your mind is going…" his tired eyes locked with hers, and in them she saw a tenderness she had seldom seen before. "Yet… I'm glad you're here… a good death… in your arms. Couldn't ask for more."

"You are not going to die!" she forcefully replied, clutching his hand more strongly, "You can't! You'll be fine, you'll see. Jon's men will come for us and they will make you alright!"

_Just like in one of your songs, little bird_, she could almost hear him say.

"It's alright, Sansa…" and he was queerly calm about it, she noticed, "wish I had… properly kissed you, like… a good little lady should be kissed… or not so properly, I guess…" At this he laughed and she couldn't help but smile through her tears. She leaned down, and for the first time, she pressed her lips on his. It was a short kiss, but heartfelt, entirely different from that kiss she had imagined a different life ago. His lips were soft, even the burnt side of them, and she cursed her shyness, and the time they lost, when they could have been kissing all the while. She cursed the thousand different kisses that they missed.

"You will be fine," she stressed, his head on her lap, as she pressed her hand to his chest. His heart was beating fast, and she couldn't tell if that was a good or a bad thing. "We will get out of here. Someone will come for us, and once we get back to Castle Black, the Maester will heal you. You will be perfectly fine and fighting again in no time, and once this war is over, we will go back to Winterfell."

"Keep going," he murmured, taking hold of her hand and holding it above his heart.

"Once we are home," she smiled down to him, trying to ignore his shallow breathing, "Bran will make you a Lord, for all your efforts in battle. He will give you lands, a castle, and the hand of his sister, should you ask for it." He squeezed her hand with little strength, and she kept going. For him, and for her.

"We will be married in the Godswood, in front of the old gods, and we will have a magnificent banquet. Arya will get slightly drunk during the celebrations and so will you, and when the time for the bedding comes, every lord will be too scared to even take a ribbon from my hair."

His heart was now beating slower, and she felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. Her cheeks were wet, and her eyes swollen, but she kept going.

"We will have five children, or maybe six. They will be as tall as you, and as brave and loyal. We will have three girls and three boys, and they will be close and they will care for each other deeply."

She heard faint footsteps at a distance. They could be allies, or they could be wights, getting ready for a new onslaught. _It wouldn't matter_, she thought, _it wouldn't matter at all if they were._

"We will be so happy, Sandor, the bards will sing songs of our love," his hand wasn't holding hers anymore, "we will live in our very own castle," she closed her eyes, her voice hoarse, "no one would dare part us," no heartbeat. "And when we are old…" she choked on her tears. "When we are old…"

All sound seemed to be muted as her words echoed in the beginning of dawn, remains of a promise broken before it was ever made.


End file.
